


The Veil

by Calenheniel



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Dark, F/M, Gothic, Iceburns, Romance, Victorian, helsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:50:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calenheniel/pseuds/Calenheniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Hans x Elsa; Victorian AU; twoshot.] She's always been mysterious—too mysterious, at first, for him—and that thin, black shroud, matching her black dress, and purse, and shoes, and gloves, makes her even more inscrutable. But he's determined to see her, to know her, and so he sits with her in gardens, in lounges, in cafes, watching the hours, days, months pass. And watching her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> This is really only vaguely supposed to take place in Victorian England. You can interpret it any way you want, really. I've been in a dark mood due to the rain recently, and this was the result. Written as a birthday present for schwarztkd on Tumblr.

She only ever lifts the veil for tea.

He catches glimpses of what lies beneath it, in those moments—red lips, pale skin, blue eyes—but he dares not say a word.

She's always been mysterious—too mysterious, at first, for him—and that thin, black shroud, matching her black dress, and purse, and shoes, and  _gloves,_  makes her even more inscrutable.

But he's determined, this time, to see her, to  _know_  her, and so he sits with her in gardens, in lounges, in cafes, watching the hours, days,  _months_ pass.

And watching her.

The way she stares blankly out into the street; the way her hands clench and unclench around the cup; the way her lips grow fuller as they sip the tea.

He knows she's watching him, too—and that knowledge is precious to him.

 _I'm ready,_  she announces suddenly, and he starts at the sound of her voice. He hasn't heard it since that morning.

 _Ready?_  he asks, wondering.

She doesn't look at him when she does it—when she pulls back the veil over her red lips, pale face, blue eyes—but he's staring at her all the while, watching.

She removes it entirely, after a beat, and places it in her lap; finally, her eyes look down, observing her shaking fingers.

He sees the opportunity, takes it—takes her hand in his, gently, soothingly—and when she warms under his touch, grasps it back,  _looks_ at him, he realises, absently, that it's the first time he's touched her.

No—that she's  _allowed_  him to touch her.

_Elsa._

She doesn't match his calm expression, but she's not cold, either, because her hand is still in his, and it's  _pulsing_  with heat.

 _She wouldn't want me to live like this,_  she says, and there's something like a tear in her eye before she quickly brushes it away.  _It's already been a year._

Her bottom lip is still trembling, he notices; he grips her hand tighter, and she shudders.

 _You've been so brave,_  he reassures her, ignoring the looks they've garnered from other patrons.

They know who she is, after all— _everyone_  does—and they know who  _he_ is, and they think they know what he's after.

She's never listened to the rumours, though she's been warned by cautious acquaintances and circumstance alike; suddenly, he's thankful that she was raised behind closed doors, away from the world of gossip, and that she's become numb to the whispers around her.

 _I'm not brave,_  she says at last, looking at him again, solemn.  _I just lived._

He smiles.  _And living is a brave thing to do._

She's silent at this, though a faint touch of pink colours her cheeks.

He's never seen her look that way, and the expression is so reminiscent of her sister's that he's taken aback, nearly breathless.

He has to remind himself that they're not the same—not in the slightest—because where he would've confessed  _you're beautiful_  to her sister in that moment, and then looked chastened, embarrassed, while she blushed,  _she_  is cold to flattery, and charm, and humour.

At least, she  _was;_  now, gazing at her, he's not so sure.

It won't be as easy as before, he knows, watching as the colour fades, and her eyes grow duller again. She's not so easily fooled, nor  _tempted,_  and he can't imagine that she'd ever skate on thin ice, or even trust him enough to go in the first place.

But she hasn't let go of his hand, yet, either.

He remembers, then, the cabinet at home, and the little drawer inside of it, where the bottle is carefully hidden away—and he's glad he purchased it, silencing his doubts.

Somehow, he knows he'll finally get to use it.


	2. Part II

They always take tea in the parlour.

Everyone else has gone, leaving them alone—him sitting across from her, admiring her elegance, enjoying the silence—and he dares not say a word, lest he break the illusion that time has stopped.

The room is darker than usual, the curtains drawn, the scent of dark roses heavy in the air; he wonders how she isn't bothered by it.

He knows, though, that there are still so many things he doesn't understand about her, even now—even after the long walks in the rain, the quiet evenings in the library, the small conversations by the fire.

Even after she took off the gloves, placed her shaking hands in his, and spoke her vows.

But when he remembers that moment, and how she looked at him, finally, as  _hers,_ and not her  _sister's—_ and he remembers how she placed the papers in his grasp, and spoke of  _in case anything happens to me_ ,  _please,_   _Hans, keep these close_ —he knows that she's not as mysterious as she once was, because she trusts him.

And as he smooths a hand over his vest, feeling the papers beneath it, he realises, again—

Her trust is precious to him.

There's something like  _victory_ dancing in his eyes as he considers her, his carefully-tended flower; something like  _fondness_ touching the edges of his lips as he recalls the endless months of waiting, his patience, her unbearable  _silence._

It was worth it all, he knows, to see her bloom as she did—to hear his name in sighs falling from red lips, to see pale cheeks flush with desire, to  _feel_ blue eyes branding his skin—and even now, looking at her, she's as beautiful as she was then.

No, he thinks, smiling— _more_ beautiful.

Her silence, in retrospect, was better than the endless  _blathering_ of others—the shocked gasps following the announcement, the murmurs of  _betrayal,_ the reminders that he wasn't supposed to be  _hers_ in the first place—and he's thankful that she accepted him, against her better judgment.

(Against  _their_ better judgment.)

He'd never been able, in all that time, to dispel her suspicions about him—not on cold nights spent curled beside her, whispering against a trembling ear, nor on warm ones when the air was so thin, and  _humid,_ that they could scarcely breathe.

But suspicions, he supposes, are normal, are  _healthy_ , alongside trust—because her sister didn't have any, and now she's nothing more than a distant memory, encased in ice, suspended in time.

 _Just like you,_ he breathes out, standing from his chair; instinctively, he glances at the mantelpiece to check the hour, before he remembers:

There's no such thing as  _time_ in that room.

He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, and frowns—it's not proper, not  _correct,_ and so he is quick to conceal the offending object with black fabric.

 _That's better,_ he says, mostly to himself, though he's sure she'd be pleased, and that she'd  _agree_ —if she could speak.

She can't, of course, but her silence is somehow less  _deafening_ now than it was at the start; in fact, there's a kind of strange serenity upon her lovely face, in the hollows of her closed eyes, on the smooth, unworried surface of her forehead.

It's a wonder to him, then, that people could have ever said she was like the Snow Queen in the fairy tale—not when she looks so peaceful, framed by oak, flowers weaved into her white hair—but when he sees how her soft, fair skin is tainted blue, he supposes that they might have had a point.

 _Oh, Elsa,_ he says pityingly,  _you should be with the ones you loved–and who loved you in return._

He draws the veil back over her—over lips that once sighed his name, over pale cheeks whose blush he'd seen even on the blackest of nights, over blue eyes that will forever  _burn_  in his memories—and once it is done, he pauses, silent again.

Absently, his hand drifts,  _caresses_  the side of her face; then, his fingers trace the outlines of her mouth, and his head dips down to meet hers.

_Instead, you only have me._

He presses a kiss to those red lips, and he pretends that he can feel them through the shroud, the darkness—and he pretends that she isn't colder than the stones at the bottom of a riverbed, and that he isn't  _choking_ on the stench of the roses.

He wishes she were bothered by it.


End file.
